


King of Bling

by Lenore



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Challenge Response, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-23
Updated: 2006-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:57:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is the producer of a reality show. Rodney is a contestant. It's rigged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King of Bling

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/summercon/profile)[**summercon**](http://community.livejournal.com/summercon/) [Blame Someone Else Challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/summercon/3868.html). I got [](http://quettaser.livejournal.com/profile)[**quettaser**](http://quettaser.livejournal.com/)'s request, "The gangster AU! No pairings necessary, but bonus points if John is the dame who throws a wrench into their plans." Um...it came out more "gangsta." Sorry if this isn't quite what you had in mind, [](http://quettaser.livejournal.com/profile)[**quettaser**](http://quettaser.livejournal.com/)!

There were days—okay, so it was actually every day—when John wondered how the hell he'd gotten here. Air Force brat, kid of a pilot, he always assumed he'd be a pilot too, until they had to take eye exams at the start of ninth grade, and he turned out to be colorblind. That took some getting over. But finally he decided if he couldn't be a top gun, maybe he could make movies about them. A screenwriter! It wasn't perfect, but it was some consolation.

Until he actually started working in the entertainment industry. He didn't have much luck selling his screenplay, "He Never Saw It Coming," a psychological action adventure period piece about a happy go lucky pilot and his misadventures with women. He had an on-again, off-again career in TV. There were his fatcat years as a staff writer on a medical drama called "Black Death!," in which a crack team of medical researchers did battle against deadly epidemics of the past that had mysteriously reemerged. On the other hand, his friends kidded him about his graveyard of sitcom pilots.

He hit a particular dry spell a few years back, got fed up and went off on a big rant to his agent Melvin. This was when Melvin gave him the advice that continued to haunt him, "You're thinking too old school, Shep. It's not about the story anymore. It's about camp. High concept."

"Oh yeah?" he'd shot back. "Well, how about this. We find the least cool, least talented people in America, and we turn them into rap stars. The prize is all the diamond-studded jewelry they can stuff in their pockets. How's that for a concept?"

Melvin snapped his fingers. "King of Bling. Perfect!"

The weird part was that the network agreed with him.

Barry Schnecter, Vice President in charge of programming, actually shook John's hand. Usually he dodged his calls. "Genius, Shep. We're all banking on it being a winner. There's just one thing, though. We want to get you out from behind the scenes. You've got the looks, and we think having someone who really _gets_ the show emceeing it will add that extra touch that will put it right over the top."

John stared. "But—"

Schnecter waved his hand. "Fine, fine. We'll make you executive producer, too." He waggled a finger at John. "You're a tough negotiator. So, I assume we have a deal?" He held out his hand.

It was shake or start looking for a day job, and John didn't think he'd make a very good barista.

Although in hindsight maybe he would have been happier making grande soy lattes. Now he spent every week in primetime hell, facing down contestants with a big, forced smile and his trademark, "So you want to be a gangsta?" The worst part was: he had the top-rated show on television and an unbreakable five-year contract. The fact that he hated everything about "King of Bling" and wasn't very good at hiding it didn't make a damned bit of difference. America loved it when he got sarcastic.

This round's wannabes were possibly even more unlikely than the previous ones. There was Teyla, the yoga instructor from Sausalito, about as edgy as Enya. Ronon, a stoic mountain, whose act consisted of standing on stage with his arms crossed, staring down the audience, daring them to notice he wasn't uttering a word. Of course, they couldn't get enough of him. Elizabeth, the international relations professor, went by the stage name Proper E, and rapped about etiquette. Laura, the army lieutenant and demolitions expert, did a gymnastics routine between verses about blowing things up.

But the worst was Dr. Rodney McKay, Ph.D., who when asked if he was an honest-to-God rocket scientist testily informed them all that he was far, far smarter than that. John had actually gone to the trouble of googling him. The guy was an astrophysicist to be precise, and apparently as brilliant as he claimed to be. As far as John was concerned, that made his attempts to find the gritty side of quantum mechanics and put it to music all the more pathetic.

John kept trying to get McKay voted off, so he would go back to his real life and win a Nobel Prize or something, but the network had a hard-on for the guy. "He's ratings gold," Barry Schnecter said when John brought it up. "He makes it to the final round, end of discussion."

John's annoyance at having a bona fide genius making an ass of himself on the stupidest television show in broadcasting history tended to come out in particularly barbed remarks after Rodney's performances, something that apparently did not escape Rodney's notice. He cornered John outside his office after they'd taped the third episode. "What is your problem?"

John didn't stop walking. "If you have an issue, you need to take it up with the producer."

Rodney fell into step with him. "Not the most efficient solution, since my problem is with _you_."

"I have a role to play, Dr. McKay," John told him, the same old tired spiel he'd said a hundred times before. "It's nothing personal."

"Bullshit. You save your best shots for me. I want to know why."

John stopped and faced him. "And I want to know why you're wasting your time on this crap when you have an actual purpose in life."

"Hah!" Rodney's eyes lit up kind of crazily. "Said like an Adonis with complicated hair and that laconic charm thing that makes women's panties explode. You have no idea what it's like to be the uncool kid."

John stared at him. "You mean, _that's_ what this is about? That's really— dumb."

"Yes, it's so very dumb that I get tired of my girlfriends dumping me for greasy-haired drummers and street poets and decided to do something about it. I'm sorry if I don't meet your exacting standards," the words dripped with sarcasm. "But then, you wouldn't know anything about my problems, would you? I'm sure you have women lining up to give you blowjobs. Men too, probably." He narrowed his eyes. "Hey, is that what this is about?"

"The fact that you're insane?"

"Just short-sighted. I should have figured you'd have a casting couch." He threw up his arms up and sighed. "Fine. Have your way with me. I'll do whatever it takes."

"You think—"

"Come on, come on." Rodney pulled him by the arm. "Let's get this over with."

Rodney locked the door to John's office and wasted no time getting down on his knees. He whipped John's pants open, and, damn, Rodney's mouth wasn't just big, it was talented, too.

"Jesus." John sank his fingers into Rodney's hair and rocked his hips.

Teasing licks turned to serious suction, and John embarrassed himself by whimpering.

Rodney pulled off just long enough to say, "You know, if you weren't exploiting me, this would be totally hot."

"I'm _not_—"

But then Rodney went down on him again, and that was the end of talking, except for a few mewling little nonsense syllables when he came in Rodney's mouth.

Rodney got to his feet, wiped his lips with the back of his hand while John zipped up his pants in a daze.

"I'll expect you to keep up your end of the bargain." Rodney pointed a finger.

When he'd gone, John picked up the phone, hit Barry Schnecter on the speed dial. "I had an idea for how to boost ratings. You know how people love nothing more than a good controversy—"

A moment's pause and then, "I'm listening."

On the very next episode, Rodney was voted off. The studio audience practically had an aneurysm, and the Internet boards exploded. Rodney didn't take it too well either, and security had to get involved. "King of Bling" was all over every morning show the next day, and Barry Schnecter sent John a Land Rover.

The Saturday morning following, very early, John got a call at home, "Backstabber."

He squinted blearily. "Rodney?"

"So are you just a jerk? Or was the blowjob not quite up to snuff?"

John sat up, rubbing his eyes. "It was a hell of a blowjob. And I did you a favor."

Rodney snorted. "I'm sure you think that's true every time someone sucks your cock."

"I meant getting you booted off the show." John rolled his eyes. "Look, Rodney, you have more important things to do with your life. Most people can't say that. Forget being cool. You just need to date different people."

John expected invective, but Rodney was surprisingly quiet.

At last, he said, "The Ivy, tonight, eight o'clock."

"Excuse me?"

"I hear that's a hot spot," Rodney said. "You need to take me somewhere nice to make it up to me. Afterwards, we'll go back to your place, and you'll let me fuck you. Then we can talk about our future."

"You think I'm going to take that deal?" John asked, amused and more than a little aroused.

"I _know_ it. Don't be late."

Rodney hung up, and John lay back. It occurred to him that a story about a jaded reality show host and the slightly crackpot contestant he starts sleeping with could make an interesting indy film. He reached for his laptop and started making notes, anticipating a long evening of research with Rodney.

**Author's Note:**

> I stole something that will not be named to avoid spoilers from "Little Miss Sunshine." Consider it an homage!


End file.
